


What We Carry With Us

by ALovelyLitwit



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, M/M, Mild to Moderate Violence, PTSD, Soft Ending, combat flashback
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALovelyLitwit/pseuds/ALovelyLitwit
Summary: Alex and Michael get snowed in at the junkyard. Michael asks a surprising question.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 152





	What We Carry With Us

The snowstorm hits earlier than forecasted. Alex hadn’t expected to be locked away in Michael’s bunker while the snow accumulated up above. Hadn’t expected three feet of snow to fall so quickly with at least three more on the way. Hadn’t expected to be snowed in with no one but Michael Guerin for the foreseeable future.

Michael manages to shovel a path from the bunker to his airstream with his telekinesis. They hole up in the trailer for warmth, the generator prepared for a few lingering cold days. Alex doesn’t know what he and Michael are at the moment. Only knows they’ve been spending a lot of time together. Meals at the Crashdown, long discussions about Caulfield and family legacy down in the bunker, drinks at the Pony. Maybe it’s just friendship. Maybe it’s more. Maybe it’s both.

The point is – he doesn’t know. And there’s danger in not knowing.

Michael throws himself on his bed, kicking off his boots and propping himself up on his pillows. Arm thrown lazily behind his head. Alex watches out of the corner of his eye, still taken all these years later at the long, lean form he paints against crisp, clean sheets. It’s one of the main reasons his sheets never stay crisp or clean for very long.

Alex doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s standing awkwardly, shoulder sloping into Michael’s makeshift closet. The door nothing but prettied up plywood that scarcely holds his weight. He tries to act natural, but his brain keeps attacking him with explicit images of the last night he spent here. How he’d climbed behind Michael and fucked him so hard the thin bedframe started to splinter. And then waking up the next morning to Isobel and those goddamn bagels.

There’s a clock somewhere ticking, echoing loudly in the narrow trailer. Alex feels his eye start to twitch. Tries to think of something to say – anything to break this uncomfortable silence. He dares a glance at Michael. His eyes are closed, his breathing has deepened. Alex wonders at his ability to fall asleep in a moment this rife with tension. But then Michael’s hand pats the bed next to him. ‘You can sit down, Alex. I’m not going to bite unless you ask me to.’ He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, but his lips quirk up. Doesn’t need to see Alex to know the effect he has on him – will always have on him.

It's a risk. Getting that close. But then Michael looks at him, eyes filled with a naked need, and Alex is moving as quickly as he can to close the distance between them. Falling on the flat mattress at Michael’s feet. He hates himself just a little. For all the ways he never says ‘no’. For all the ways he always says ‘no’. And how quickly he manages the contradiction.

But he’s trying to change that.

Michael pushes himself up a little higher on his pillows. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Lines are suddenly furrowed across his forehead. They put Alex on edge immediately.

‘Okay.’ Alex sounds hesitant, worried. And he is those things, but he’s also curious. He watches Michael bite at his bottom lip, running the question back and forth in his mind. Working out the kinks and formulating the perfect calculus.

‘You’re going to think this is weird. And it probably is. So, feel free to tell me to fuck off.’ He’s fiddling with the bottom button on his shirt, pushing and pulling through the wrong buttonhole. Alex can’t help but fixate on the small patches of skin he keeps exposing. He knows every inch of Michael’s body, can feel that precise stretch of skin yawn beneath his fingertips, and yet he’s still such a marvel.

Alex settles back against the headboard that doubles as a kitchen wall. ‘Whatever I’m imaging in my head right now is probably way worse.’ He shrugs and picks at his cuticles. Heartrate slightly elevated. He notices how close their knees are, wonders what would happen if his leg crossed that invisible barrier to rub against Michael’s. Would there be any room left in the airstream for questions? For any words at all?

The yellowed newspaper normally taped to the window has come loose and is flapping softly against the glass. Michael reaches up to flatten the corner back into place, but the act is futile. ‘What was it like over there? In the Middle East?’

Immediately, a distant desert landscape unfolds in Alex’s mind. He’s back in Iraq, at that tiny village market. A bright Friday morning. Sun so low he can feel his skin burn. The hustle and bustle of people kicking up the dirt and dust, his eyes watering. In the muddy road, there’s a boy kicking a soccer ball. A little girl cries in her mother’s arms. Several dogs sniff the food stalls. A group of men are having tea outside a small bakery. And then the world is upside down. The earth shakes with so much screaming. The spray of someone’s blood soaking through his fatigues. A sudden, searing heat and his skin on fire.

He comes to with Michael violently shaking him. Shouting his name in frantic whispers. But Alex can’t hear him. There are tears falling down his face, dotting his t-shirt with little minuscule constellations. His hands are shaking and his breathing ragged. Michael’s hands have moved from his shoulders into his hair, pulling their foreheads together. Alex concentrates on the jagged edges of Michael’s half-chewed fingernails scraping across the sensitive skin of his scalp. Syncs his breathing to that soothing back and forth scratch.

When sound returns, Michael is saying sorry on repeat. Alex takes several deep breaths and puts his hands on Michael’s chest, pushing gently. Wanting to calm him but also needing space. Alex reaches up and rips the flapping newspaper from the window, flattening his palm across the freezing glass. The cold grounding him in time and place. He continues to breath for several more minutes. Michael has gone silent.

Alex’s heartrate slowly returns to normal and he grabs Michael’s hand. ‘I’m okay. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that. Just got caught off-guard. That hasn’t happened in months.’

‘No, Alex, I shouldn’t have asked. And with no warning. I’m so, so sorry.’ Michael’s hands reach out for Alex but stop short. The rules have changed, and he doesn’t want to make another mistake. Doesn’t want to end up hurting Alex more than he already has. He balls his hands into fists and drops them at his side. ‘Do you need anything? Some water?’

‘Water would be good.’ His throat is dry, and he knows Michael needs something to do. While Michael digs through his mini-fridge, Alex hugs his good knee to his chest and stares down at the indent in his jeans where his prosthesis ends. He tries to curl the toes on his right foot, but, of course, nothing happens. He hates how much his chest still aches at the disappointment. He’s never told anyone about that day. Decides to change that as Michael returns with bottled water.

‘Thanks.’ He uncaps the water and gulps down half the bottle in one go. He swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and tugs Michael back down onto the bed. They sit facing each other, legs touching at every point possible – Alex no longer needing or wanting the extra space. Just the opposite, actually. He places the water down behind his head and grabs for Michael’s hands. ‘I’m glad you asked – despite what just happened. I feel like if I was allowed to talk about it more, I might be able to heal better. But no one ever wants the truth about my service, about my leg. Everyone just wants a hero to martyr on main street. A celebration and a parade. A purple heart for the front-page picture. And in all that, I get lost.’

Michael pushes a stray lock of Alex’s hair behind his ear. ‘You’re never lost to me. I always see you. Maybe sometimes I just don’t know how to ask. I guess that’s pretty obvious by now.’

Alex smiles at him and puts his hands on Michael’s knees, using them to center his focus for what he’s about to say. ‘You know, war is often boring. You sit in makeshift buildings in crumbling old air bases or bake beneath the desert sun in stitched together tent cities. You talk about home and play cards. Go on routine missions that result in fucking nothing. Wake up, repeat. Wake up, repeat. And so much of that was not bad. So much of that was forging an odd sense of family. Which felt good.’

Outside the snow has briefly turned to ice. The wind has picked up and the trailer sways. The temperature has dropped despite the generator’s best work. Michael grabs a blanket from beneath them and spreads it across their laps. Searches underneath for Alex’s hands on his knees. Waits for him to continue.

Alex inhales deeply, squeezes Michael’s knees and keeps going. ‘There are maybe a handful of days when anything big happens on purpose. Missions you understand are likely to go south sooner rather than later. Moments when you stare at a living, breathing person. Finger on a trigger. And every time you squeeze that trigger, so much time spent trying to convince yourself you’ve saved American lives. But you haven’t. All you’ve done is commit murder. And all you are is a murderer.’

He feels Michael flinch at that word – ‘murderer’. But it’s the truth Alex has to live with for the rest of his life. And now, so does Michael. Michael, the not so secret alien. Alex, the not so secret murderer. One of those things decidedly worse than the other.

‘You’re not –,’

Michael tries, but Alex will not let him. ‘I am. And no one – especially not you – gets to pretend otherwise.’ Alex is staring him down. Eyes wide and as serious as he’s ever been. Holding his breath waiting for Michael’s acceptance. Otherwise, the conversation is over. And perhaps so much more.

There’s a showdown happening between them. He can feel Michael’s resistance. Is surprised when Michael slides impossibly closer, practically climbing into his lap. Large, familiar hands on his cheeks – his head held steady, golden-hazel eyes boring into his own. ‘You’ve killed people, Alex. I get that. I do. And I hate the fucking military, so I know there was no noble reason for what you did. That American patriotism is a scourge upon this planet. It preys upon the most vulnerable among us. Scared kids with nowhere else to go. I have understood that since the day you left for basic. Better than you, even. I have never and will never see you as a murderer. I have never and will never love you any less.’

They are both right and they are both wrong. And for the first time, that’s okay.

Michael places his hand on Alex’s right leg. At the exact spot where what remains of his leg gives way to his prosthesis. ‘You don’t have to tell me now. But I’d like to know what happened when you’re ready.’

Alex rubs the sore muscles in his thigh. ‘Suicide bomber. Well, three suicide bombers. We weren’t on mission. Just visiting a village market on a quiet Friday morning.’

Michael shoves Alex’s hands aside, replacing them with his own. Massaging the knots out with his talented fingers.

He sighs and continues. ‘I don’t remember much other than the putrid smell of burning flesh. May not have even been my own. Everything erupted into chaos. My ankle had been severed by a burning piece of twisted metal. They had to field amputate my foot. I woke up in Germany with a bad infection. More surgery, less leg. But I was lucky. We were a squadron of ten and then we were three.’

Neither says anything for a long time. What is there to say anyway?

Alex yawns. Michael can see the exhaustion settling in around his eyes. ‘You should sleep. It’s getting late.’ The sun long since disappeared beyond the horizon. ‘Take the bed. I’ll crash in my chair.’

But Alex won’t let him leave. ‘Help me with the prosthetic.’ Together they remove Alex’s pants and free his leg. Michael strips down to just his boxer briefs. Alex follows suit. They curl together underneath the wool blanket. Michael tucking Alex into the crook of his shoulder. Alex’s arm tossed across Michael’s stomach, fingers stroking at the soft skin along his ribcage.

‘Thank you for telling me.’ Michael whispers the words into Alex’s hair, following them with a kiss. Alex stretches his neck up and Michael bends down to kiss him on the mouth. Slow and easy.

There’s a clock somewhere ticking, rhythmic and lulling. And as the snow piles up outside, they fall into the best sleep of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Cross-posted to @litwitlady on Tumblr.


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